The Affair of the Rue Ferou
by Mordaunt
Summary: A detailed account of the riot at the Rue Ferou which occurred the evening before D'Artagnan's audience with de Treville. From 'The Three Musketeers'.


The cabaret was in it's usual state of hilarity and dissarray, owing perhaps partly to the Musketeers who made frequent sallies into its estimable interior. Bright and smoky lights, loud talk and louder laughter, the clank of swords and clink of wineglasses made up its atmosphere.

Night had fallen, causing a precipitate descent upon the tavern by a number of the aforementioned Musketeers, six of whom were now ranged around a large and rough-hewn table. Drink and talk flowed freely, as in most gatherings by these worthy gentlemen. The former of the two may have been said to be flowing altogether too freely, as the countenances of several displayed, and the talk grew louder.

"_Morbleu!_ Fie upon the host!" muttered a Musketeer who seemed to be the most affected.

"Why say so?" questioned the man facing him, taking another draught from a bottle he held.

The first speaker seemed to be collecting his scattered thoughts for a moment, then continued, in a voice heavy with intoxication.

"For the cursed low height of this table… tis enough to make one's back like that of His Eminence, Monsieur le Cardinal!"

A burst of drunken laughter followed this witticism, added to by some not of the little party.

One of the six raised his head from where he had been seeming to contemplate the ruby depths of the wine.

"Silence, La Mey, your wit should know prudence here." The words, uttered in a calm and unamused tone, still held something of authority, though the individual who spoke them wore no more assuming a uniform than his companions.

Even after the man returned to his meditations, silence reigned momentarily around the table, though the room in general, not hearing the quiet words, continued to roar. Had they heard, assuredly the room itself would have quietened. Such was the effect ever produced by Athos, whose slightest word carried as much quiet command as a king's.

However, there was no laughter from a table close at hand, where sat two gentlemen, whose uniform declared them as an officer and a soldier of the Guards of His Eminence himself.

The officer, over whose countenance passed a shade of rage and his black eyes gleamed fearfully for a moment, could have been observed to address some words in a low tone to his comrade, who appeared to agree with the sentiment presented, as he nodded, and cast a look of menace upon the Musketeers. The look was instantly dissipated at a hasty gesture from the officer.

"Ah! La Mey, and for such a man as yourself to speak of such things?" Porthos stretched a colossal arm over the table in the direction of the Musketeer addressed as La Mey.

A round of chuckles greeted that remark, as the one in question was of slight build, short stature, and a frame so fragile as to seem incapable of containing the amount of wine he had just taken in.

La Mey seemed again to have sunk into somnolent mutterings. Across the table, the fair-haired one with the bottle reached across and taking the sleeper by the shoulder, gave him a shake which nearly precipitated him from the circle.

"Leave him alone, Descartes," Aramis said mildly.

The one addressed muttered a curse… he being intoxicated as well, but far from the extent of La Mey.

There was a definite strained feeling in the room… the remaining snickering having suddenly ceased. The Musketeers felt it also, and several including Athos looked about them to discover the cause. It was not long in being discovered. The officer of the Guards had risen to his feet, and now stood, like a statue of foreboding. In acknowledgement of their questioning looks, he spoke.

" A crooked back he may have.. but a long arm he possesses as well. Sufficiently long to stretch from the Louvre to the Bastille, on behalf of an insolent Musketeer."

Turning cooly in the wake of silence produced by these words, coupled with their malevolent tone, the guard made his way to the door, his comrade following with an arrogant air of self-satisfaction.

As the door closed behind them, Porthos recovered from the surprise, and leaped up with an intent to follow. The result being that the table was overthrown by his efforts, and with a frantic curse at that which slowed his pursuit, the Musketeer would have made for the door, except that Athos called him back.

"My dear Porthos, reflect. What would you do? kill Jussac, unarmed as he is? Bring upon yourself, not only the Bastille, but the shame of an action of cowardice?"

Porthos, in a very ill humor, returned to the upset table, and righted it with a jerk. However, the wrath of the others around the table was by this time aroused.

La Mey, the cause of the trouble, had of course been aroused at the upsetting of the table, and now took up an empty bottle and flung it with surprising accuracy for one so impaired by wine. It struck the door with a crash which sent a shudder through the building, so great had been the fury with which it had been thrown.

Splintering, a shard of bottle-glass rebounded and buried itself in the closest table, scattering the dice which had just been thrown. One was retrieved from the ground, and a jubilant shout rang out. The die had turned up a five, and coupled with the other which remained on the table, constituted a win. His opponent disagreed hotly with the legitimacy of the roll, and an argument followed.

Athos, rising to his feet, had calmly paid the good host, and turned to the rest. Descartes and Forsythe, the member of the little party until now un-named, had succeeded in persuading La Mey to rise and prepare to be off.

Meanwhile , the argument had become a fight, blows were exchanged, and oaths uttered with such a fury that even the cool Athos felt for his poniard. Assuring himself it was still there, in case he should need it for self-defense, he said in a low tone to the others, "We had best go before this becomes too hot. Were the Cardinal's Guards to happen upon the place now, they might accuse us all, and you know the only result of such an accusation. "

All felt the sense of Athos' words, and started toward the door as a body, several with hand on sword. Aramis touched the shoulder of Porthos. "Friend, this riot bodes no good… next time, you must have patience in your wishes to settle with someone." Porthos muttered under his breath.

The fight between the two ruffians had escalated swiftly , as others in the cabaret gathered and took sides. A bottle was thrown, the table upset, and more than the original pair of dice-players was now involved in the melee. Even the normally placid Forsythe was forced to use his fist in order to make way through the crowd. Reaching the door, and losing no time in exiting, all breathed more easily.

Forsythe rubbed his hand. "I'faith, I must have lost all reason, for I struck a man on the head who would have pushed me back… forgetting, morbleu, how very hard are the heads of those who join in quarrels that are not their own, simply for the sake of quarrel." This surprising philosophizing from Forsythe was rewarded by a smile from Athos, a chuckle from Porthos, and various nods from the others, with the exception of La Mey, who had all he could achieve, in his current state, with negotiating the path.

Rounding the corner of the cabaret, in order to part there and return to their various abodes without being noted by a passersby, the Musketeers paused, and exchanged various jests and pleasantries.

"A charming place, this is," said Descartes, listening to the pandemonium issuing from the inside. "We shall meet here again, shall we not?"

"Faith, yes," said Porthos. "When the Guards of His Eminence be absent, so that La Mey can make his observations as he wishes. "

"And also, we would wish for brawlers with skulls more kind to the fist," put in Forsythe. Athos smiled again.

Aramis, however, seemed to be listening to something other than jests or cabaret brawls, and the others turned inquisitively in his direction. "Tis nothing," said Aramis, after a moment's silence. "I thought I heard a step, but…"

He was interrupted by a cry from La Mey, just as the cabaret door opened, shedding a dim light over the group and showing the dark forms of a half-dozen Guards, rushing upon them with drawn swords.

"You are under arrest!" cried a voice which they all recognized as that of Jussac. La Mey was prostrate in a spreading dark pool which stained the ground. All immediately gripped their swords, but before there was time for them to be drawn and put into action- for it had been but a second since they were alerted by the cry of La Mey- One of the Guards, rushing into their midst, a man of powerful build, had, with the quickness of lightning enraged, plunged his own steel into the breast of Forsythe, who fell, lifeless, to the bloodied ground.

Sparks flew as Porthos pulled his sword free of the scabbard, and managed to strike a blow with the flat of the blade. The blow struck the arm of the tall Guard, who, dropping his sword, uttered a howl. It was, however, too late…

Athos, stabbed by an unseen enemy, staggered and fell. The Guard, withdrawing the blade from the fallen Musketeer's shoulder, noting that the blow, sent home diagonally, had likely penetrated the chest, and surmising that it would quickly prove fatal, moved to the attack of the remaining three.

Three of their number had managed to wrest the sword from the grasp of Porthos, who, nevertheless, was managing to defend himself quite admirably with naked fist… but fist against sword can never last.

It was but a moment that Athos lay, fighting to remain conscious… his comrades were under heavy and unfair odds.. with a supreme effort he raised himself on one hand, struggling to draw his sword with the other. It was too much, and he sank back , one hand pressed to his shoulder, after having seen the prostrate forms he knew were two of his comrades. Besides that, he could see nothing… the night was black as pitch, and blackness was closing in on his mind as well. Blood streamed from the wound, which threatened to overcome him with pain if not blood loss.

Aramis, having drawn his sword, had rushed furiously upon one of the Guards, who came at him with outstretched arm, thinking to finish the contest at once with a mortal thrust. With his wonted quickness, Aramis parried, but the force with which steel met steel shattered his blade as if it had been made of glass, and Aramis let the now-useless section he held fall, with a cry of dismay. The Guard rushed upon him now, prepared to deliver another furious stroke which could not now be parried, when the Musketeer stepped aside to avoid the blow, then seized the wrist of his opponent.

Ripping the sword from his grasp with a force which threw the sturdy Guard to the ground, Aramis, bending over him with a wicked glint in his black eye, sent the blade to the heart of its owner.

Before he could withdraw it, to put it again to service, he was seized from behind by two of the Guards. Porthos had been overcome as well, and Descartes was of no more use, seeing that he was, although uninjured, on the ground, while a Guard who far exceeded him in strength kept him there forcibly with a knee placed upon his chest and sword point at his throat.

Athos, however severely he was wounded, was neither deaf nor blind to the plight of his companions… Conquered! They would be arrested by the Guards… and for the first time in their lives, be forced to appear before M. de Treville as conquered men… Nothing could keep Athos from attempting again to come to their aid. Supporting himself on one hand, he succeeded in drawing his sword, and used it as a staff to rise.

Trembling from the effects of the wound, he rose to his knees, now supporting himself on his sword , and caught a glimpse of the battlefield again… in the darkness his eyes could not discern friend from enemy, but there was no longer the clash of swords. Either they had been killed outright or forced to surrender… Athos' strength gave out , and he sank to the ground, pale and motionless. Merciful blackness overcame his senses, and he knew no more.

Porthos was no less displeased by the thought of being conquered; indeed, he swore and struck out with his fists like a madman. Nevertheless, the effort profited him little, and he was firmly dragged off by two of their number.

Descartes, who appeared to have been not only forced to remain on the ground, but also maliciously choked into submission by the smothering hand of the Guard who had watch over him, was scarce able to stand, and was therefore no threat of escape nor of resuming the struggle, for the moment. He required thus only one guard, and seemed much disoriented, putting the minds of the captors at rest as to his capability of flight.

Aramis, on the other hand, seemed disposed to die fighting still with naked fists, a resolution shared by his giant companion, whose blow with the flat of the sword appeared to have effectively broken the arm of the unfortunate it fell on. However, it was but a few minutes of struggle, two men without swords against five men with, and Aramis suddenly ceased all resistance, and suffered himself to be dragged along, his countenance displaying nothing but dismay and resignment. Porthos, however, was not nearly as easily convinced that his efforts were in vain, until when turning a corner he caught the eye of Aramis.

There was within that cunning mind a plan developing which the titan sensed, and contented himself with verbal resistance and oaths, being confident in the sagacity of his comrade. Finding their prisoners to be calm and attempting no continuance of the fight, their captors relaxed, talked among themselves and exchanged words at the expense of the Musketeers. More than once the faces of Aramis and Porthos flushed at a deriding, triumphant glance sent in their direction.

Descartes was coming to himself, looked about and was surprised to see his comrades so placid… Aramis succeeded in conveying a thought in response to his inquisitive and reproachful look, which satisfied him.

As they approached a row of houses, and turned the corner, Aramis caught the eye of Porthos again, winked, nodded slightly, and gestured with a slight movement of his head to a side street as they approached. Descartes, who had not taken his eyes from Aramis for several minutes, now seeming recovered fully and awaiting the signal, and having seen the gesture directed to Porthos, became tense.

Porthos displayed casually his formidable fist; Aramis nodded slightly again.The side street lay just ahead.. Porthos watched Aramis, who finally nodded, then, with lightning speed, knocked down the closest Guard, who had not been expecting a sudden blow to the temple, and collapsed instantly.

Porthos, meanwhile, had similarly dealt with one of his escorts, threw the other to one side, and all three Musketeers dashed into the side street. In the darkness behind them muffled oaths and groans rang out, then the clatter of pursuing footsteps, which quickly died out. At the next street they parted ways; Descartes, as he knew he had likely not been recognized and had no need for secrecy, started in the direction of his own residence. Aramis and Porthos paused to draw breath and congratulate one another… felicitations which rang hollow. Porthos looked about him and groaned. "Curses upon this night! We are conquered, Aramis… I for one shall never hold up my head again… we have besides left two good comrades dead upon the bloodied ground. And Aramis-" he gripped the arm of his friend , with the look of one who has too long forgotten something of importance- "Athos. Where is he?"

The thought had occurred to Aramis at nearly the same moment, and his handsome face was a mask of foreboding.

"He was stabbed, I believe, at the first… yet I saw him try to rise, and fall again, so he was not killed at once. He is avenged, however, whatever comes of it… I killed the guard who did the deed, with his own blade."

The words, spoken with a chilling coolness, nevertheless revealed in their tone the deep worry Aramis as well as Porthos carried for their fallen companion.

Porthos at once turned and started back in the direction of the cabaret. Aramis, more prudent, insisted they go by the back ways to avoid being set upon by any more of the Guards of His Eminence, who should most likely have been warned to arrest them, should they be found. A suggestion which was agreed to by Porthos only after Aramis had noted that, should they be arrested, they should not be able to return to the cabaret at all.

Nevertheless, each moment of time spent in returning seemed to the impetuous Porthos as a lifetime. He bit his mustache with a fury and muttered oaths under his breath, all the while taking such strides in order to hurry the pace that Aramis could scarcely follow. Aramis, though possessing somewhat more self-control, was not the less affected by the uncertain fate of Athos, and displayed it in the nervous motion of his hands and the marked lowering of his brow.

At last the cabaret's smoky light greeted them, streaming from windows and partly open door. Another moment brought both to the darkness among the lifeless bodies, at the corner of the building. Aramis crossed himself and stooped over the first he came to. "What…" managed Porthos, standing back awkwardly. Aramis straightened. "La Mey. God rest his soul. Curses on those who strike at a man's back." Porthos swore.

The same pattern was gone through again, which only deteriorated the state of mind of both, upon discovering the second lifeless man in Musketeer's uniform to be Forsythe. Porthos' eye, cast about fearfully, espied the motionless form that could only be the one they sought.

Aramis was at once upon his knees at the side of their fallen friend, and with a hand that trembled slightly, raised the head of Athos. The deathly whiteness of the face disclosed startled honest Porthos, who looked away and groaned.

"Is he…"

Aramis lay a hand over Athos' breast, then sighed heavily. "No. He yet breathes and lives." And upon the lips of Aramis there rested a smile of relief, though unseen in the darkness. Porthos uttered a cry of joy and would have lifted Athos to his feet at once, but Aramis, with another lowering of his brow, had opened Athos' doublet and glanced at the wound. "Tis serious, Porthos… care must be taken."

Athos stirred, and, regaining consciousness, opened his eyes. A light returned to them as he recognized the giant form of Porthos, and the man at his side. "My friends… you were not conquered?"

The voice was faint, but still brought a throb of joy to the heart of Porthos, who answered. "Mordioux! but we were, and have escaped."

A cloud passed over the pale brow of the questioner, who said no more. Aramis shifted positions with a nervous air, brought on by the closeness of the cabaret. "Athos, you are not able to stand?"

Athos was silent for a moment, seeking the face of Aramis in the darkness, then replied quietly, "I am, simply aid me to rise. "

Porthos sprang forward to offer his powerful arm in this service, and slipping it behind the shoulder of the wounded Musketeer, raised him with seeming little effort. Aramis slipped his arm under the left arm of Athos, on the other side. Athos, supported thus, could have done none other but stand.

"Thanks to God the abode of Athos is least distance from the cabaret," commented Aramis pleasantly. Athos said nothing, but raised a white hand to his shoulder. "Twas the stab of an assassin, not a gentleman," muttered Porthos upon noting this action. "You had not time to wield your sword properly in your defense. " Athos again was momentarily silent before replying, "I had not time to draw it." "Mordioux!" replied Porthos, who seemed unable to find a more suitable word to describe the night, it's proceedings, and its effects. Athos' shoulder had again begun to stream blood, and he said nothing.

Happily, as Aramis had said, the house of Athos was not long in being reached. At the door, which was locked, Porthos and Aramis glanced at each other, then Aramis produced his own duplicate key and unlocked it. Porthos half-carried his comrade up the stairs and into the apartment, Aramis followed, and the door was shut behind them.

A quarter-hour later Porthos and Aramis again traversed the path toward their own apartments, having seen to making Athos as comfortable as could be under the circumstances, and having been earnestly adjured to keep his wound a secret. Athos seemed to be more distressed, indeed, of the possibility of De Treville or the king's receiving an account of that fact, than he was of the wound itself.

Knowing that Descartes would not have exposed his name as one of the captured by giving accounts of the quarrel, Porthos and Aramis considered the secret fairly safe and told Athos so.

Porthos seemed to be wrapped in other thoughts than those of secrets, for he at once doubled his fists and swore. Aramis, to whose expression had returned his habitual mildness, glanced at him with a simple arching of the eyebrows in interrogation.

"The Guards of His Eminence will suffer for this, indeed! Would that M. de Jussac were here at this moment, that I could settle accounts!"

Aramis preserved silence for a moment, then replied mildly, endeavoring to pacify his companion. "Yes, my friend, we will have our revenge, but for now, we must be as quiet as lambs, and cheerful as ever, so as to not give the Guards a thing to laugh over. "

"But we are conquered! Never have I been defeated," answered Porthos, in a manner slightly less heated than formerly. Aramis frowned, and his black eye flashed again. "True… nor have I."

"And the shame that shall fall upon us.. for surely it will be told to M. de Treville, and we shall have to feel his eye upon us and know that we have been conquered."

"Shame is wiped out by blood, my friend, " said Aramis cheerfully. "And our revenge shall come, as I replied to you once. But for the present, we shall forget all the doings of tonight."

"While Athos suffers and perhaps dies from the doings of tonight? Morbleu! Never!"

Aramis kept his peace, knowing the character of his friend well enough to reason that by the morning, Porthos should have reflected on Aramis' admonition, and should be his usual expansive self, having more than likely nearly forgotten the doings of the night before.

They parted ways where the streets diverged, one leading to the apartments of Aramis, the other to the ostentatious abode of Porthos. The sky was fast assuming a grayish tint from the east, heralding the dawn which had not long till its arrival. The Musketeers must needs sleep quickly, and ready themselves for the next day, whatever it may hold in store.


End file.
